No Time For Change
I found a parking spot right outside my bank today. The meter said it was 15 minute parking and the payment options were either six minutes for a nickel or 12 minutes for a dime. That was it. There was no way to pay exact change for the full time allowed. They could have just made it five minutes for a nickel and 10 minutes for a dime or they even could have allowed 18 minutes parking for my extra pennies. It was like there was some underlying message that when your 15 minutes are up, Hollywood doesn’t give two cents about extending it.
I finished my bank transaction surprisingly fast and since I wanted to get my full money’s worth on the meter, decided I’d try my luck at making my car payment next door at Bank of Amorons. See, every other bill I pay I can do with a click of the mouse. But oh, no, not Bank of Amorons. I either have to traverse my way through 30 phone options to get to the one that tells me it costs $10 to pay over the phone or I have to fill out a check, find a stamp (what’s a stamp?) and stick the envelope on top of the building’s mailboxes where it will sit for 12 hours begging for someone to steal it and my identity along with it.
I was already there, I figured I might as well pay in person. Lucky me, there were only a couple people in line.
My payment amount was $269.70. All I had was 20 dollar bills and a load of change so I gave her $280.70. She did her thing then handed me a receipt. I stood there for a moment as we just looked at each other. Then I inquired, “My change?”
She replied, “Oh, you wanted the change?”
Well of course I wanted the change! Did she think I was tipping her for her stellar teller services? Or did she assume I hit it big in Vegas and wanted to get an $11 head start on next month’s payment? It just seems that a bank teller of all people should realize that when the numbers don’t match up, maybe she should ask a question or two. Yet another reminder of why I took my banking elsewhere a long time ago.
I skipped the change knowing the payment reversal would probably involve six employees shaking their heads in confusion for an hour and my parking time was up.
Next time, I think I’ll just buy a stamp.
Beverly Hills 9021 Uh Oh
Television producer Aaron Spelling is being sued for sexual harassment by his former nurse. She claims he “placed his hands on her breasts, groin and genital area, exposed himself, solicited oral sex and offered her cash in return for various sex acts.”
That’s just part of the allegations against her 82-year-old former employer, but common sense tells me things didn’t go down the way she claims.
I’ve seen Spelling a couple times. The first was three years ago in Vegas (“My New Year’s W/Rickles and Spelling”) and at the time he looked like he was at death’s door. When I saw him again two years later, he looked like a Jehovah’s Witness at death’s door, refusing to go away until the Grim Reaper let him in. Now he probably looks very much like former death row inmate Charles Ray Allen does today: just a rapidly decomposing prune. The guy wouldn’t even have enough strength to lift the gargantuan rock his wife Candy sports on her hand. The point being I might believe the accuser if she said he’d copped a feel in one naughty spot or another. But there’s no way he possesses the strength and dexterity necessary to get his hands on the melons and the muffin unless she let him. At the very least, she must have done a lousy job rebuffing his advances. If a guy lays his hand on any of my jewels, it’s either going to be followed by a serious smack or some serious smacking. Depends on how hot he is.
As for the allegations he exposed himself, well, she is a nurse. I can’t even count how many times I’ve had comics whip out their shlongs in non-sexual situations. Like it is for nurses, that’s just part of the job for female comics. And so what if he did offer her money for sex? That’s not sexual harassment, although it could be deemed sexual insultment if the mega-millionaire didn’t offer her a tidy sum for a little romp.
Per court papers, the home nurse was first hired to tend to Spelling in November 2004. Shortly thereafter, she claims, Spelling began his lewd behavior, which also allegedly included masturbating in front of her, sticking his tongue in her mouth and telling her “that he had many actresses who would come into his office and perform oral sex on him.”
That last part I believe. There’s no other explanation for the career of that awful blonde actress who played Donna Martin on “90210.” But come on, he stuck his tongue in her mouth? I’ve had scores of overanxious dogs try to do that but none has succeeded. And they’re professionals with nine inch tongues. How wide does someone have to keep her mouth open for Grandpa Spelling to manage that kind of action? I don’t even think the jacking off part is a big deal. She could look away or go to another room- she had about 100 other rooms to choose from for crying out loud.
Given that he created such bed-hopping guilty pleasures as “Melrose Place,” and “Dynasty,” I don’t doubt that he’s a real horndog. And most likely he did make advances toward her but there’s a way for a woman to shoot a guy down and move on. If the behavior continues, start collecting proof, especially when it’s against someone so loaded. I’ve managed to make more than a few bucks over the years from the covert collection of information I later used against employers who fired me (yeah, the plural there is correct- “insubordination” appears quite frequently in my old employee files). But I wouldn’t have been able to retaliate if I hadn’t kept records of situations as they occurred. In this day and age of mini-cameras and tape recorders, it shouldn’t have been too hard for her to document one of the many behaviors she claims occurred. I can guarantee that if she had any actual proof like that, this whole situation would have stayed quieter than George Bush on “Jeopardy.”
Lucky Signs
Last night I went to 7-11 and my total came to $7.11. I was expecting balloons to fall from the ceiling and a bunch of people to jump out from the corners throwing confetti, but at 2 am all I got was a bored security guard and a cashier wearing an “I am not a terrorist” button.
I figured the numerical coincidence was a sign that I should buy a lottery ticket. Gamblers always see weird things as lucky signs. One time, my friend and I drove to Vegas and passed a burning car along the way. For some reason we were certain that was a lucky sign (nobody headed to Vegas sees anything as an unlucky sign). As it turned out, we lost our asses.
Before heading home, we tried to eat our “free” breakfast that cost enough to feed several third world countries for a year, but it’s hard to swallow when there’s a knot of suicidal intentions stuck in your throat. Then we got really stupid, yanked out some more cash and hit the tables again. The pitboss arranged to extend our room several hours. With five minutes to go until lockout, we’d both won ALL our money back! We literally ran to the elevators and desperately yelled, “Hold the door!!” The guy did and my friend and I turned into a couple of blathering idiots speaking 1000 words a minute:
“Omigod-we-were-up-all-night-and-we-lost-all-our-money-and-then-we-went-
back-to-the-tables-and-we-won-it-all-back…!”
for 20 floors. The guy smiled and said, “Right on.” All cool from Mr. Cool himself, Peter Fonda. Even though we didn’t actually win money on the trip, coming back from where we’d been felt unbelievably lucky, so now we always hope to see disasters on the road to Vegas.
Back to the 7-11. I bought a ticket and scratched it right there. I’ve learned not to take those home with me because when I do and win, it takes me about six months to finally turn it in. All the while it’s positioned in a prominent spot on my desk at least six inches from any other objects like it’s the Holy Grail and I’m terrified any clutter will cause me to throw it out by mistake. All that even though the most I ever won was $10 (once).
My sign recognition was once again on the money… I won $2 (off a $2 scratcher). I proudly handed the cashier the ticket and he ran it through the computer. Then he asked me, “How do you want it?”
I stood there staring at him with my mouth agape for a good 10 seconds. How do I want it? Hmmm, I don’t know…in gold bullion? Or maybe on one of those big checks from Ed McMahon. Better yet, throw it into a high yield cd, let it roll over and in a year I’ll have a nickel to toss to the homeless guys who accost me every time I walk in the joint.
How many options are there for two dollars? Maybe some people like to splurge and spend it all at once on Slurpees but I’ve learned my lesson and took the cold hard cash.
Another break-even victory for me!
You’re Not Gonna Believe This
I was finishing up today’s post when an email brought to my attention the fact that my blog is missing the “flag?” button. Now, it’s possible that the Blogger powers-that-be stumbled upon my blog (which isn’t hard to do these days), realized the enormous social importance of this blog (through such topics as the American Idol premiere, Paris Hilton’s smashup and Robbie Kneivel’s sex life) and decided to rid me of the oppressive judgment measure other Blogger users are subjected to.
But since I don’t live in Never Never Land, I know that didn’t happen.
Instead, it appears that I’m the recipient of some flagging (derived from the words “fag” and “flogging”) which is done by closed-minded sheep boinkers (although, it could have been done by a friend, in which case, that’s pretty funny).
I was curious if the flagging was due to my blog’s content or my “increased visibility within Blogger.” So I checked out the other blogs occupying the recently updated list. The first three sites all had their flags in place. Then I got to “Poker Abby Teaches Poker.” I wanted that page almost as much as I wanted “Lesbian Therapy.” It, too, didn’t have a flag. In fact, it didn’t have any page at all! You guessed it… I am seizing the world one recently updated blog at a time! And it never ceases to crack me up.
I figured I was already pushing it with the two other blogs pointing here. But I’m not quite ready to get rid of “My Blog” so I decided to keep the new site in it’s usual location and continue in the tradition of the old Poker Abby’s advice blog. However, it’s no longer advice on playing poker, it’s just advice coming from a poker player. As you can guess, this ain’t Dear Abby’s kind of advice. For the two of you who don’t already know the way to the page go to: Poker Abby. (Stop by and submit a question)
As for any further conquering, I do believe this is it. I’m sure by this time next week, I’ll no longer have a Blogger account, though I don’t think I’ve actually broken any rules. Regardless, flag me all you want- this blog’s not going anywhere.
Defining Traits
In regard to the gender-confused American Idol auditioner: I liked that judge Randy came right out and asked him if he’s a male, unafraid to acknowledge his disparate appearance. There’s this underlying belief in our society that it’s wrong to point out people’s differences. As a result, many people end up referring to others in confusing terms because they’re afraid the most obvious characteristics are too offensive to mention. It happens all the time but the best example I’ve experienced went something like this:
Friend: Listen to what happened to Barney Flarney* (not his real name)
Me: I don’t think I know a Barney Flarney
Friend: Sure you do. He’s tall-over six feet, wears flannel shirts and cut off gloves.
Me: Doesn’t ring a bell.
Friend: He always hangs out with Steve and Bobby.
Me: I don’t think I know him.
Friend: I know you know him. He came into some money and drives a new Mercedes.
Me: Maybe I’ve never met him.
Friend: You have. He’s uh…dark.
Me: Do you mean black?
Friend: Well, yeah, but he’s very dark…….. He has burns over 70% of his body.
Me: Oh the burn guy! Sure I know the burn guy! Everybody knows the burn guy!
(Before anybody accuses me of mocking him, I should note that’s essentially how he referred to himself).
The point being it’s ridiculous to describe random qualities a person possesses when there’s one in particular that clearly identifies the person. Don’t make me guess who the blue-eyed blonde you’re talking about is when all you have to say is she has a “pre-Trim Spa, Anna Nicole Smith-sized rack.” And don’t tell me about the sweet, quiet girl when you can tell me she has a “pre-Trim Spa, Anna Nicole Smith-sized body.”
Quite frequently I experience people’s circumvention of descriptions having to do with race, sexual orientation, body shape, handicaps, etc. even though that feature might separate the person a bit among others within our mutual frame of reference. Perhaps they think it’s PC to avoid partitioning people based on attributes that have been the basis for much discrimination. But to me, eschewing the obvious implies it’s something shameful. If it’s a biological trait (like skin color), there’s no reason for shame and if it’s a chosen trait (like sporting a porn star moustache), I say: out the fool.
I’ll show how important it is to stop this dilution of the English language. I’ll write the PC descriptions of some famous people along with the real world descriptions. Which would you prefer to see in the Final Jeopardy round?
RW: Fat black rich chick.
RW: Famous bald midget
RW: Tub of lard radio host who’s as deaf to the sound of music as he is to rational discourse.
RW: Black-turned-white guy who sleeps with little kids.
RW: Redneck ignoramus with a rap sheet who can’t string together five words without making at least three grammatical errors.
I’m not saying it’s necessary to use harsh terms like “tub of lard” to describe people, just don’t run down 20 traits before you get to, “He has no arms or legs.”
I Admit, I Watched “It”
Like 38 million other Americans, I tuned in to the premiere of American Idol. No, I wasn’t forced to watch the program by the Bad Taste Society- I actually did so of my own free will. I realize this admission hurts my credibility when it comes to discussions of quality television, but I do have a good excuse. One of my poker buddies co-hosted the show the first season and I used to watch it just to give him some support. I didn’t even like it enough to tune in every week but somewhere around the time Justin Guarini asked the crowd to tell him how much they loved him (consequently landing him in the bottom three the next night), American Idol had seeped into my blood stream. Today the world’s wealthiest nations pledged two billion dollars to combat the spread of the bird flu, which has only afflicted 150 people worldwide, while nothing is being done to ward off American Idolitis, which has infected millions in our own country. While my situation isn’t as severe as most people’s (I can only identify two songs released by any of the contestants, both by Kelly Clarkson), a cure must be found.
…But until it is, I must chat about the show.
My favorite aspect of the auditions was watching Paula, fresh off the Corey Clark scandal, try to contain herself every time a hottie took the stage. While she did her best not to show much interest, I couldn’t help but notice the little wad of drool bunched up in the corners of her mouth. And who could blame her? I might have been tempted to go a little Mary Kay LeTourneau on 17-year-old Ace myself.
During the hiatus, Randy seems to have lost his fist-pumping “dawg” act, though I suspect it will be back. Simon, on the other hand, still insists on saying, “If I’m being honest with you…” to every other act. Nobody’s ever accused him of being less than honest. With the dough they’re throwing at him, they need to hire him some new writers so he can drop his redundant, “dreadful,” “horrendous,” “the worst…” Simon’s insults make the show but he needs to come up with some fresh ones instead of recycling them from past seasons.
The auditions brought out the usual assortment of freaks: There was the Paris Hilton wannabe with the fake tan and the speech patterns reminiscent of Terri Schiavo. There was the guy dressed as Goldilocks (or quite possibly, Cindy Brady). There was the guy who brought in his bouncing coaster invention, oblivious to the fact that a coaster is meant to keep fluids off your furniture, not to catapult them across the room. The most curious auditioner had to be the last one, the guy Randy had to ask, “Are you a dude?” Had the boy admitted to being transgender, I wouldn’t have thought he was weird. It was the fact that he looked, sounded and deliberately dressed like a girl then said he found it surprising that people often confused him for one that was weird. I guess it’s not just singing these people are clueless about (I was amused that they played “The Crying Game” for his whole segment).
The American Idol producers inject their reality show heroin through a bunch of sob stories. First we met the girl from Kansas who had just been evicted from her home and had nowhere to go. Interestingly, she was joined at the Denver auditions by about 12 people wearing shirts that spelled out her name. She had a great voice but it’s hard to sympathize with a chick who blew her rent money on a lame American Idol marketing ploy. Then we met the young cowboy from a small town who’s never been on a plane. In fact, his audition for the three judges amounted to the largest collection of teeth he’d ever sung in front of. His home videos featured him playing with a bunch of birds on his farm. I suspect we’ll see this footage again on a special 60 Minutes episode titled, “How American Idol Sent A Cowboy and Bird Flu To Hollywood.”
It’s obvious that there are just as many people anxious to be the next William Hung as there are wanting to be the next Fantasia. They don’t seem to realize it’s just as hard to fake Hung’s innocence as it is to fake Fantasia’s talent. Whereas past years’ premieres had me roaring with laughter at some of the auditioners, most of this year’s acts seemed too contrived to be funny.
While many are there clearly hoping to get 20 seconds of airtime in the “Worst of” segments, what’s even sadder is how many ghastly singers sincerely believe they have what it takes to be the next American Idol when they don’t even have what it takes to finish third at their local dive bar’s karaoke night contest on an evening when a tornado’s breezing through town. I’ll even cut the teenagers some slack for their cluelessness but their parents should be ashamed. It’s one thing to support your child’s dream, but it’s a complete disservice to encourage a dream that will never ever EVER come to fruition. Don’t boost 5’1″ Timmy’s hopes of being a pro hoopster- boost him up in his chair instead. Don’t take your Danny Devito-resembling daughter to modeling auditions- encourage her to take up astronomy or film development or any activity done in dark locations. And whatever you do, don’t tell your child with the voice like nails on chalkboard that’s she’s a talented singer. She might actually believe you only to learn the embarrassing truth in front of 38 million viewers.
Happy (Last) Birthday
This morning, California executed a guy minutes after his 76th birthday ended. I can’t help but wonder how his final visitors handled the situation. Did they wish him a happy birthday? Did they bring him gifts? (If so, did they keep the receipts)? Hallmark claims to have “cards for every occasion” but I’ve never seen a “condemned loved one” section in the greeting card aisle. I can only guess this is what some of his cards said:
Front: On this, your birthday, remember…
Inside: Live each day like it’s your last!
Front: Who would have thought you’d reach the ripe old age of 76?
Inside: Certainly not 12 former jurors
Front: At your age, don’t think of it as having one foot in the grave
Inside: Think of it as having one vein out of the grave
Front: Most guys your age can only blow out five candles
Inside: Tomorrow, you won’t even be able to do that
Front: We highly recommend you live it up on this birthday
Inside: Love, The Supreme Court Justices
Front: Congrats on receiving the birthday present you always wanted
Inside: You’re getting out of prison!
Front: A lot of people get hung up on their birthdays
Inside: Few have it happen the following day
Front: Do you remember the birthday celebrations of your youth…
Inside: …when you used to shoot up just for fun?
Front: Everybody has a tough time waking up the morning after their birthday
Inside: Some more than others
Front: You may be over the hill today…
Inside: …but you’ll be six feet under it tomorrow
Blog Hijacking!
IT’S OFFICIAL: I AM THE BIGGEST BLOGEEK.
Some of the regular readers may have wondered about the recent influx of comments on my blog. Unfortunately it’s not due to particularly stellar posts or any grand accomplishments by me. I did just what the title says- I hijacked a blog. Actually, as of this morning, two blogs.
I noticed that the “Recently Updated” list on the Blogger Dashboard hasn’t been updated at all for the last few weeks so I checked out some of the sites. One of the blogs no longer had an owner and I wondered if I could snap it up. Two minutes later, “My Blog” was mine. I added a little redirect to “People are Idiots” and voila! The people cometh.
But what I really wanted was the blog titled “Lesbian Therapy.” Sure, I knew it wouldn’t help with my Christmas card argument but I also knew that a title like that would draw in the masses and thrust my reader numbers to the heights of such esteemed works as Time, Newsweek and Big Boobies Weekly. I checked back today and, as luck would have it, “Lesbian Therapy” was available! (Yeah, THAT’S the sort of insignificant “luck” that I have). Besides gaining more readers, I get the amusement of imagining hordes of guys plowing through a bunch of posts, all the while wondering, “Come on! When does she talk about showering in the women’s locker room?”
So why do I need more readers? I don’t. My old group of loyal readers are great but most seemed to be on the same wavelength as me and I wanted a little more dissention. I won’t feel like I’ve truly made it as a blogger until I get my first official death threat. If anybody’s a little peeved at my blog-hogging, I assure you that no matter how bad you think my blog is, it’s still much better than the ones that filled those slots before. Plus, if my usual luck stays true to form, Blogger will finally fix the problem tomorrow and this place will be a ghost town once again.
In the meantime, thanks for coming, have a look around and don’t be afraid to admit how you found my blog.
Sexual Claims
I was hanging out with a group of mostly friends and some girl I don’t know mentioned that she dated (or maybe just fucked) Robbie Knievel, Evel Knievel’s son. When she left, one of the guys scoffed, “Well, who’s knows if that’s really true.”
I said, “OF COURSE it’s true. Who’s going to lie about screwing Robbie Knievel?”
I guess he thought she was attempting to impress the group, as if Robbie Knievel was actually somebody. He’s merely the son of a guy who achieved tv fame at a time when there were only 12 channels (the “u” channel didn’t count) and the other viewing options were a couple of PBS telethons and seven stations of static. I have no idea what the dude even looks like. For all I know, maybe I’VE fucked Robbie Knievel.
There’s nothing to be gained by falsely claiming him as a lover. Dropping the name Robbie Knievel won’t get your script greenlit or move you up on the reservation list at Dolce. I think declaring you’ve had sex with the guy from the Capitol One commercials actually holds more cache.
Believability is all about the fascination vs. shame factor involved. If someone said she screwed People’s “Sexiest Man Alive,” Matthew McConaughey, I’d roll my eyes in disbelief. But if she told me she screwed Gary Goleman, I’d believe her. If someone said she screwed George Clooney, I’d think she’s full of crap. But if she confessed to doing William “She Bangs” Hung, I’d definitely believe her. If someone said she screwed Colin Farrell, well, I might believe her because that guy seems to get around.
The easiest way to determine the validity of a sexual claim is this: if it’s safe to assume a video tape of said encounter could be released to the public and nobody would have any interest in viewing it (beyond the “I had a threeway with Mini-Me and Ron Jeremy” horror/curiosity variety) then the claim is probably true.
Virtual Bullet
I previously explained my idea for Common Sense Law, which I will implement when I’m president. Today I’d like to share with you a plan that I believe will increase revenue while reducing crime and people’s blood pressure at the same time: The Virtual Bullet.
We all have instances when people aggravate us so much we just want to blow their heads off. For whatever reason we don’t- for most it’s because it’s immoral, for some it’s because it’s illegal and for others it’s because their local Wal-Mart has already closed for the evening. It doesn’t matter what your reason is, the Virtual Bullet will let you stick it to someone guilt-free!
Here’s how it works: On January 1st of each year, every person who paid taxes for the previous year will receive their Virtual Bullet in the form of a red, white and blue toy gun. It will be easily identifiable to ensure it’s not seen and met with actual gunfire, which is crucial for people cruising through South Central Los Angeles or high school corridors.
When a person decides to use his Virtual Bullet, he aims it at the recipient and pulls the trigger. The toy gun will emit a distinct popping sound, which is strictly for the amusement of the shooter and any possible witnesses. At the same time, the gun will take a photo of the “victim.” If the intended happens to be a telephone customer service rep., the shooter can simply shoot the gun toward his phone, making sure the date, time and phone number are visible.
Once the bullet has been expended, the happy taxpayer then submits the gun, a brief form and a $30 processing fee. The small fee is necessary to ensure the submittor is serious about taking down the offender plus the shooter will get a framed copy of the picture they took. On the flip side, anybody who doesn’t use their Virtual Bullet throughout the year will receive a $100 refund on their next year’s taxes (Virtual Bullets can not be carried over to the following year). This incentive will prevent drunk revelers from haphazardly using up their Virtual Bullets on New Year’s Eve.
Naturally, there are some rules and exceptions.
On to the punishments. It doesn’t matter what sort of infraction occurred, if someone pisses off another person to such an extent that the offended waives a refund and opts to pay a fee, the bullet recipient’s paying the price.
Punishments for bullets received over a three year period:
Sure there are a few kinks that need to be worked out, but I believe there are countless benefits to the Virtual Bullet. The biggest being that people could no longer treat others like crap and repeatedly get away with it scot free. Finally, they would be held accountable and THEIR victims would get a little satisfaction.
Don’t forget:
Vote “yes” on the Virtual Bullet
Vote “yes” on Common Sense Law
Anybody Seen Granny? (AKA What’s That Smell)?
From the “truth is stranger than fiction” files:
The body of a Cincinnati woman spent the last couple years at home propped up in front of a tv, per her last wishes (making me wonder if her static viewing habits is the reason for ABC’s dramatic ratings shift and why “The George Lopez Show” is still on the air). After the 61-year-old’s death in August 2003, her caretaker left her upstairs in the home with the television and air conditioning running because she said, “Don’t bury me. I’ll be back.” This alone makes the story of Terminator Granny fascinating, but there’s more:
Family members continued to live downstairs.
Police went to the house last Wednesday after a relative who hadn’t seen the lady in 2 1/2 years called them. They found a staircase behind a door blocked by a basket and climbed to the second floor where they found the body. They said the odor of death was noticeable.
It took 2 1/2 years for the relative to realize she was missing and call the cops? As I understand it, 80% of all senior citizen deaths are discovered within two weeks of an offspring’s birthday. Apparently Terminator Granny wasn’t too consistent with those $12 birthday checks (speaking of which, I’d like to use this space to wish my twin brother John a happy birthday- saves me a phone call).
That’s always been my big fear- that because I don’t have a regular schedule and because I’m so bad at returning calls, I might die and nobody would notice for awhile. I shudder at the thought that the last public word on me would be from one of my neighbors on the tv news saying, “There was this horrible smell in the building so bad it made me gag…. turns out it was Jenée.” (And then the cheesy reporter would say, “At least the comedienne went out with a gag. For channel two news I’m…”)
Terminator Granny’s death seemed to be common knowledge among all but the one clueless relative. Friends and family would occasionally stop by to say hi to her mummified body and her former caregiver recently bought her some new clothes (I’m not making this stuff up). There’s something very depressing about the fact that a dead lady receives more gifts and visitors than I do. And in that part of the country, she’s probably having more sex too.
In case anybody’s wondering, the reason the family endured Terminator Granny’s stench for 2 1/2 years was to honor her religious beliefs (surprise, surprise) that she’d rise from the dead. I can tell you this much, if the body of an Atheist is being housed in someone’s upstairs, it’s not per the deceased’s wishes and it’s not receiving housecalls.
Ch-Ch-Changes
Obviously I changed the look of my site. I figured it was time since it’s been a couple years since I sported the old look (and my complexion was never that greenish). I’d been waiting until I got new headshots but I don’t see that happening in the near future. I haven’t added much to the site but I will be uploading pictures soon so check back later.
The Religious Wrong
On Thursday night, I saw my first preview for The Book of Daniel, a quirky new dramedy about an Episcopalian priest and his dysfunctional family. I thought it looked interesting but I probably wouldn’t have sought out the program. Then I read that several NBC affiliates had removed the show from their schedules in response to some boohooing from religious groups. That got my attention. No matter what the critics or fans say about a show, nothing is more likely to get me to tune in than hearing the Religious Right has a problem with it. I think they should do away with the current stars and thumbs in ratings and implement a system of crosses for each cult, I mean religious group, who opposes the show. The more the crosses, the more likely it is I’ll like it.
I wasn’t quite clear where the pre-premiere controversy came from. Ok, the priest is a Vicodin-popping hottie (Aidan Quinn) who has regular chit-chats throughout the day with American Idol runner-up Bo Bice. Or maybe that’s supposed to be Jesus. As far as I know, taking painkillers is neither unlawful nor immoral. And I thought religious dudes talked to their imaginary friend all the time. It could be worse- he could be carrying on with Ryan Seacrest. Then there’s Father Hottie’s wife who’s quite fond of her martinis. Again, not a sin unless she’s drinking cheap vodka. They have a teenage daughter who gets arrested for selling pot. I’ll give the religious groups that one, though I’d have to put that in the category of “illegal but not sinful.” They have an adopted Chinese son who’s half naked in every scene as he tries to make it with his girlfriend. The only sin there is the warm feelings I get when I see this stud, who’s quite possibly a minor. Rounding out the family is the oldest son who’s a gay Republican. Clearly, he’s the most objectionable character on the show, being a Republican and all. But methinks the uproar is over the fact that both he and the show’s creators are gay. Oh wait, I don’t have to just presume that, a spokesman for the American Family Association came right out and said that was the problem.
The same spokesman went on to say, “This was not a realistic portrayal of a minister’s life. This was so far beyond the pale, it was almost a comic strip version.” Whoever said that television portrayals had to be realistic? Does anybody believe there’s even one street in America with fortysomething women who always look as fabulous as those of Wisteria Lane or that Jack Bauer can save the world in 24 hours without ever encountering rush hour traffic?
I watched the first two episodes of The Book of Daniel last night to see if there was something missing from the news reports that got the religious groups so upset. There was no bashing of religion or religious figures (as I’d hoped there would be). It was basically about a guy and his family who make some mistakes. Heaven forbid that a priest should be portrayed as (gasp!) human! Even if he wasn’t, what makes religious groups believe they should be above parody when every other group is subject to it? Even more disturbing is the fact that these tv stations give in to the complaints.
A few weeks ago, some Catholic group complained about a recent South Park episode with the following premise:
A statue of the Virgin Mary is believed to be bleeding from its rear end, inspiring faithful parishioners to flock from miles around to be healed by the miraculous blood.
Eventually, Pope Benedict XVI is called in to investigate, whereupon he determines that the statue is actually menstruating and thus is nothing special.
“A chick bleeding out her vagina is no miracle,” the pope declares in the episode. “Chicks bleed out their vaginas all the time.”
Comedy Central appeased the group by removing the episode from a scheduled rerun and possibly even permanently. I thought it sounded pretty funny so I got my hands on the episode. It starts with the kids mocking an Asian man’s accent then features a drunk father driving the kids home. He instructs one of the kids to hold the wheel so he can urinate in a bottle. He gets pulled over and arrested and later forces his eight-year-old kid to drive so he doesn’t violate the terms of his DUI. It’s one incident after another where characters’ behavior either inflict or have the potential to inflict harm on others and the Catholic group bitches about a female statue miraculously undergoing a natural biological process. Maybe they were upset because it was such an accurate portrayal of the type of believers who will pay $28,000 for a grilled cheese sandwich that appears to have the Virgin Mary on its crust.
Everybody’s entitled to complain when they’re not happy about something. If I couldn’t, this blog would be empty. It just seems to me that with the sort of resources these groups have, perhaps they should focus their energies on more productive endeavors, like getting Jerry Falwell’s bigoted ministries off the airways. At the very least, I hope tv stations will stop placating these morons and realize sin is in!
